by Heather Webb
“Yes!” she said eagerly.
“For now, let’s forget about Raoul, shall we?”
Claudette said nothing as I climbed the creaking stairs to my room.
Claudette and I rose early and ate a breakfast of baguette smeared with fresh butter and plum jam. I wrapped myself in gloves, an overcoat, and hooded wool cape. One layer wouldn’t do in a town along the sea. But I welcomed the icy winds; their ferocity eroded my emotions until I could forget it all for a while.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
Claudette touched the woolen hat fastened tightly to her head. “You don’t think it’s too cold?”
I grinned. Claudette, though a maid, had always had a warm roof over her head. She hadn’t braved winters in abandoned shacks as I had.
“We’ll survive. We’re dressed properly and there isn’t even snow.”
“True enough,” she said, following me through the front doors of the inn.
We started for the stretch of yellow sand wrapping the bay. All was alive with sharp ocean air and cold sunshine. As we rounded the bend, the water came into view. Though tranquil near the shoreline, it heaved beyond the rocky point that extended into deeper waters. Clusters of boulders framed the edges of the inlet, serving as breakers for thrashing waves.
We strolled to the outer reaches of the cove where the sand tapered off. I had forgotten how rocky this part of the shore was and found myself climbing over hunks of pink granite turned this way and that; some covered in skeletal vines once resplendent with white blossoms, others crusted with barnacles or painted in layers of seagull waste.
“It’s pretty here, in spite of the wind,” Claudette said, looking out over the rock garden and beyond to the glistening waves.
“We’ll have to return in the summer. You’ll be thankful for the wind then.”
The scenery blurred as a memory flooded from childhood, and I was swept back in time. I had been doing this exact thing one summer day—jumping from stone to stone, filling my lungs with sea air, and enjoying the holiday away from the city.
I had stopped for a moment to run a finger over my wind-chapped lips.
“One day I’ll be at sea,” Raoul had said from behind me.
“The navy?” I had asked.
“As soon as I’m able.” He bent to scoop up a clump of seaweed. “Father doesn’t want me to join, but it’s my life. My decision.”
My boots skidded on the slick stone.
Quickly, his hand darted out to steady me. “They’re slippery in the summer when the algae grows.”
“This way, you two!” Papa had called from ahead. He and Raoul’s father led the way to a dock tied with many boats. They would sail and while away the afternoon, while I enjoyed the song of the sea from shore.
The past faded as I refocused my gaze on the waves. How my song had changed since then—from glee to sorrow, and now uncertainty. Somehow, I knew I must write my own song, but didn’t yet know the words.
Beyond the rock bed, another inlet crowned with sand stretched wider and longer than the others; a perfect holiday oasis in warm weather. I shielded my eyes from the sun and peered at the series of abandoned docks, once populated by boats tied to every peg. Summer would come again, and with its warmth, life would fill this lovely little town.
Icy wind pelted my already-numb cheeks.
“I’m shivering,” Claudette said. “Can we head back?”
Judging by the ascent of the sun, our walk had taken most of the morning. “I suppose I’ve tortured you long enough. Let’s go this way, along the trail. It’ll shield us a bit from the wind.”
We trudged along an overgrown path that snaked through a series of cottages, the scent of dead grass clinging to the breeze. The inn was in sight.
Claudette wrapped her arms about her middle. “Did you bring the magic book? We could practice after we warm up.”
“Yes, but I have to admit, I don’t see the point of practicing sometimes.”
She paused to place her hands on her hips. “Because it makes you happy, for one.”
“That’s true.” I stopped beside her.
“And who’s to say you won’t be a real conjurer someday? Maybe . . .” She chewed her bottom lip.
“Go on.”
“Maybe you should think about finding somewhere to perform. I could be your assistant.”
I smiled. “You like it as well.”
“It’s better than scrubbing floors and washing sheets—not that I’m complaining. I’m fortunate to have such an accommodating mistress.” She winked at me. “She treats me about as well as a relation.”
I had daydreamed of that very thing—me on stage, Claudette as my assistant.
“There are so few female illusionists,” I said. “Drawing a crowd would be almost impossible.”
“Just because it hasn’t been done much doesn’t mean we can’t try. You know how to present yourself to a crowd. You’re beautiful and clever.” She grinned. “And I’m ever-so-charming. We could woo them.”
I laughed.
Glacial air whipped around us. We squealed at the cold and dashed toward the welcoming façade of the inn.
Once inside, I said, “The problem is, it’s not just the lack of crowd. There’s so much more involved in a magic show: the pageantry, the proper tone, the equipment.”
“Luckily, you like to learn.” Claudette grinned.
I couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Indeed, I do.”
I pushed the chicken around on my plate, watching it as it chased the baked apples swimming in brandied cream sauce. Though delicious, I didn’t feel hungry. I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Claudette. Female illusionists weren’t really allowed on stage; they would never be accepted by an audience. I recalled Papa’s unease when he saw me practice cards. He’d only allowed it because he knew how much the illusions had helped me cope with losing Mother.
With a heavy sigh, I abandoned my meal and retired to a chair by the fire. I gazed into the flames curling around the edges of a blackened log. A vision of Raoul sprang to mind, of him standing by the fireplace in the Grand Foyer. That night he seemed genuinely happy to see me, yet when the others arrived, he acted as if I did not exist. Then there were those flowers in Carlotta’s dressing room. I sighed heavily. I wondered when my feelings for him would fade, and when I would accept that his attentions were nothing more than a rekindling of our past friendship, an honor to our families, really. I pulled my cape tightly about me and snuggled against the chair’s headrest. I’d been so anxious these last few months. Adding Raoul to the mix didn’t help things. And now the illusions . . . If I were more honest with myself, perhaps I wouldn’t be in such a strange position. I knew the answers, deep down: I was a second-rate singer, I would never wed a nobleman, and I didn’t have the courage to tour as a conjurer, much less the financial means. I should be grateful for a paid position at all.
The clatter of horses’ hooves arose from outside the auberge. The next moment, the front door opened widely. A gust of sea air blasted through the great room, and the flames of the fire writhed against the cold. Who could the new guest be—the inn was nearly empty this time of year.
My mouth fell open.
A handsome man in overcoat and hat stepped through the doorway.
Raoul de Chagny.
16
I turned around quickly, clutching and releasing my hands inside the muff in my lap. Raoul had come! He’d received my letter. My face grew hot at the thought of him reading those words. I didn’t know whether to kiss Claudette or strangle her, yet here he was—to see me. There could be no other reason.
I turned once more, heart in my throat.
Raoul’s gaze wandered over the dining area tucked away in the far corner, the small office where a patron could rent a room, the large fireplace ringed by a cluster of chairs, and finally, landed on me. His smile lit the room like a beam of light over stormy waves. He strode toward me without hesitation.
“
Christine!” He sat across from me. “I received your letter and came at once. I had to see you.” He held out a simple bouquet with an assortment of holly and evergreen branches in a cone of parchment paper, tied neatly with a ribbon. Its simplicity was beautiful. “For you.”
“I— Thank you.” I accepted the bouquet, heart thundering in my chest, and cradled it against me. I dared not hope he had feelings for me, yet here he was in the flesh, the moment he received my letter. The words I longed to say refused to come—that his presence inspired music in my head, that something about our connection felt magical.
“There’s something you need to know.” Raoul cleared his throat and placed his hands on his knees.
I braced myself for truth. He was engaged and he would prefer I not write him—or worse, he felt as I did, but couldn’t marry below his station.
“I don’t know how to say this.” Raoul laughed softly to himself. “It’s awkward, but here goes. When you came to Carlotta’s dressing room that day, the bouquet you saw—”
“Really, Raoul, there’s no need to explain. It’s none of my concern. I had come to see what Carlotta wanted to tell me—”
A realization hit me like a gale of frosty air. That was what Carlotta had wanted—for me to see Raoul with the flowers for her friend, lest I get any more ideas about where his feelings lay. She’d never had anything to tell me in the first place.
“What is it?” Raoul touched my shoulder.
I smoothed my expression. “I just remembered something I need to do when I return to Paris.”
I understood perfectly well. Raoul and Mademoiselle DuClos would marry, and I would remain Carlotta’s understudy or leave the opera house altogether. She dictated what happened there, and I couldn’t fight against her or the tide of her support. It was too strong. And that had to be enough, for now. Except . . . what would I do about the Angel and his promises? I grimaced. The constant back and forth made me weary. I felt trapped in the middle, tugged from every direction.
“Please, I feel like I must explain,” he persisted.
“It really isn’t necessary.”
“I didn’t purchase them for Mademoiselle DuClos or Carlotta. In fact, I don’t know why Carlotta said what she did. I didn’t buy the flowers at all. She asked me to carry them for her from the cast room. When she alluded to them being from me, I didn’t correct her in front of you because I didn’t want to embarrass her. It would be like calling her a liar and no gentleman would do such a thing. I assumed you understood, but judging by your expression—and your letter—you didn’t.”
A weight lifted from my shoulders. I was such a fool. Raoul, ever the gentleman, respected Carlotta’s feelings. He hadn’t known it would be at my expense. I glanced down at the holly bouquet in my hand. He had bought flowers—for me. Only me.
“I needed you to know”—Raoul leaned closer, his eyes locked on mine—“how much you have come to mean to me, Christine. I can’t stop thinking about you. Your voice, your sweetness, your beauty.” The words rushed from his lips as if a dam had burst. “By day’s end, I feel as if I might go insane waiting for the next time we might meet.”
Blood rushed to my face. Could this be true? I looked down at my hands to hide my eyes, afraid they would give away too much. “I thought you were soon to be engaged to Mademoiselle DuClos.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Carlotta,” we said in unison.
He sighed. “That woman meddles in everyone’s affairs. I haven’t made a single advance, so I’m not sure why she has been lying to you. Unless . . .” He stared at me, surprise marking his features.
“What is it?” I pressed.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing that concerns you, but believe me, I don’t care for any woman but you.”
Warmth surged through me until I thought I might burst into flame. “Raoul,” I whispered his name.
His eyes, full of hope, searched my face. “You sought me out in the Grand Foyer, but then you wrote this letter. I don’t understand why we can’t be friends. Please, tell me what I’ve done to offend you.”
I touched his hand with the lightest of caresses. “I care for you a great deal—but I just can’t be with you, Raoul. I’m sorry I can’t say more, at least for now. Perhaps one day I can tell you the truth.”
He clasped my hand and held it against his face. “The day I came to congratulate you after your performance, just before I knocked at your door, I heard a man’s voice. I have agonized over it every day since. Please, put me out of misery. Are you promised to another? Is he the reason you hide from me?”
I felt the blood drain from my face and pool in my toes. Raoul had heard the ghost’s voice? The Angel’s threats rushed back.
No man can possess you, Christine, or he will pay.
Raoul couldn’t know the truth. It didn’t matter how I felt about him; I couldn’t put him in harm’s way. I stood abruptly, sending my muff and the bouquet tumbling to the floor.
Raoul retrieved them and held them out to me. “Have I offended you?”
“You must have been hearing things,” I said a little too forcefully. “I don’t entertain men in my dressing room.”
“With due respect, I know what I heard.” His voice took on an edge. “There was a man in your room.”
A spark of fury flashed behind my eyes. He assumed I would be alone with a man? I wasn’t facile like some of the other stage performers, promising myself to men who paid me in baubles and pretty silks. I might care for Raoul a great deal, but I didn’t owe him an explanation—neither could I give him one. If I revealed the Angel’s secrets, Raoul would be in danger. Still, he need not insult me.
“There is no respect in your tone, Monsieur le Vicomte.” I used his title, knowing full well it would get under his skin. “And it’s late. Thank you for your sentiments, but I must retire to my room.”
“Christine, wait. I have to know. Is there another man?” The muscle twitched along his jaw.
“Good night, Raoul.” I headed for the staircase.
He followed me and scooped up my hand.
His touch set off a tingling in my belly. Though I wanted to throw myself into his arms, I had to remember my convictions—protect Raoul from the Angel, and protect myself from Carlotta. Being sentimental would only cause more trouble.
“Forgive me.” Desperation overwhelmed his usually elegant demeanor. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I have no claim on you, or any right to question your . . .” He paused.
I raised an eyebrow, appalled once more by his veiled accusation.
“Those you choose to befriend.” He recovered quickly. “But please, Christine. Tell me. Who is it? I don’t want to make a bigger fool of myself than I already have.”
Something about the softness of his expression prompted the truth before I could stop myself. “The Angel of Music spoke to me in my dressing room. He is my tutor, and he has saved my life, more than once.”
In a swift change of emotion, Raoul threw back his head and laughed. “An angel? You had me going there for a moment. Who is it really? Come, please tell me.”
Stung by his ridicule, I tossed his gifted holly back at him and ascended the stairs. “Believe what you want, Raoul,” I called over my shoulder. “It’s the truth.”
“Wait.” He bounded after me. “I’m sorry, I—”
I closed my bedroom door in his face.
“I just want to understand,” he called through the door.
I leaned against the wall and squeezed my eyes closed. Why must I give up what I wanted? I wanted Raoul. An unbearable ache spread through me. I wondered what it would be like to move to Bretagne permanently—or home to Sweden again—to escape it all for good. But running away wasn’t the answer. The Angel would follow me. He’d known instantly when I had sought work outside the opera house—he seemed to know my every move.
“Christine?” Raoul’s voice softened.
I moved to the window, trying to block him out. A full m
oon lorded over the sea, illuminating the black waves with a trail of silver. At the edge of my view, I could see the town square with its fifteenth-century church. The church’s spire was crowned with an iron cross, and a stone fence encircled the adjoining cemetery—Papa’s resting place. The church windows reflected the moonlight, obscuring any movement that might have come from within the building.
After some time, I pressed my ear to my door. Raoul’s pounding had ceased, his voice had faded, and it appeared as though he had given up. I chewed my bottom lip and glanced over my shoulder at the flower vase the innkeeper had freshened with carnations.
I needed to visit Papa tonight.
Two hours later, when all had quieted in the auberge, I pulled on my cape and gloves. I reassured myself that I had nothing to fear in this deserted little town in the middle of the night, and I needed to see Papa tonight, alone and in peace. There was something sacred about a full moon on a cold, clear night, and I wanted to bask in it inside the churchyard.
With feet as light as air, I stole down the stairs and met the innkeeper’s wife, who was poking the fire.
“I am going to the churchyard to my pay my respects to my father. Will you leave the door open, or perhaps lend me a key?”
She frowned and leaned over the fire with her tool to push a singed log into the center of the heat. “At this hour, on your own?”
“It’s just across the square. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s close, but Jeanne won’t be happy to hear you’ve been out alone at night in the dead of winter.”
I touched her arm. “Madame Valerius doesn’t need to know.”
As she sighed, her bosom rose and fell. “All right, but don’t be long.” She slipped a key off of her key ring and placed it in my palm. “Take a lantern with you.” She motioned to one on the receiving counter.
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. It’s bright as day with that full moon.”
I tied the key to a ribbon on my dress and closed the inn’s door behind me, planning to make haste to the church, but something about the air made me pause. It sparked with energy and the clean smell of fresh snow. I looked at the sky. The full moon beamed, but patches of clouds blew in swiftly from the sea. I mustn’t take too long or I might be caught in a storm. With assured steps, I walked across the cobbled square. The church sat like an old woman with its aged limestone and humped transept; its lifetime had spanned the rise and fall of kings, of republics, and thousands of tides. The building transported me to another time, of seafarers, Celts, and those who worshipped nature long before the god of the French Catholics. I had read about the Celts, and many other things, in the library at Madame Valerius’s house during the three years I lost to grief.
